


Made for Sin

by bea_flowers



Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29968782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: You’ve been away from the Upper East Side party scene for almost a decade now, but tonight you’re headed off to the Palace to catch up with friends and make amends with an old enemy.
Relationships: Carter Baizen & Reader, Carter Baizen & You, Carter Baizen/Reader, Carter Baizen/You
Kudos: 3





	Made for Sin

_It’ll be fun_ , you tell yourself, giving a final once-over in the mirror. Your dress fits like a glove: gold, bold, classy. Your hair is pinned with gilded barrettes, your makeup plastered on perfectly. It’s a more sophisticated version of your usual self, better known as the Upper East Side version. You touch up your berry-colored lipstick with the tip of your pinkie and run your tongue over your teeth, flashing a forced smile.

 _No, don’t do that._ _It_ will _be fun_.

You gnaw absentmindedly at your manicured thumbnail and pace back and forth across the foyer of your family’s Manhattan penthouse. Your stilettos clack like a metronome on the marble floors. The even sound calms you.

You draw your finger away from your mouth and stomp toward the mirror. Pointing at yourself, you whisper, “You are doing this. You are not pussying out.” With a determined bob of the head, you steel yourself, grab your bag, and strut into the elevator, jabbing the ‘door close’ button frantically before you can change your mind.

You told the girls you’d meet them there, at the Palace. _God, the_ _Palace_. It feels like forever since your last visit. At least before you left for university abroad, so… Seven, eight years? _Christ, has it really been that long?_

You snicker to yourself, remembering the last time: one too many bottles of Dom, one embarrassing screaming match, one broken nose (not yours), and one trip to the hospital to mend a broken hand. (That was yours.)

It had been a disastrous night, but a memorable one, to say the least. And, oh, what a memory to leave your old school chums with.

Now that you’re older, you can take some responsibility for what happened. (Kind of.) But back then? Forget it. From your angsty teenage point of view, you did the heroic thing. You stood up for yourself after years of putting up with an egotistical, condescending shithead and brushing off all the loathsome things he did and said to you and everyone else. He had it coming. You couldn’t be blamed for punching out Carter Baizen.

 _Carter_ motherfucking _Baizen_.

After all these years, the thought of him still makes you see red. Yes, he was good looking. Yes, he was charming. And yes, there was a time when the sight of him tangled your stomach up in knots. But he was an asshole. An infuriating asshole with a god complex and total disregard for anyone else’s feelings, thoughts, or general existence. You’d bet good money he’s the same way now.

You know he’s going to be at the Palace tonight. It’s part of the reason you’re going. Maybe you can get some kind of closure, move on with your life, and finally stop your mind from dipping back into Baizen-centric revenge fantasies every few months.

The elevator dings and the doors open to the lobby. You take a centering breath. _This is good. This will be good for you. Closure, that’s what you need._ You’ll drink with your friends, have a few laughs, make nice with the dickhead who broke your hand (with his face), and move onto the next chapter of your life. It’s about damn time you do.

* * *

Stepping into the Palace is like stepping into a time machine. You’re bombarded by waves upon waves of distant memories: drunken spills, drunken spats, drunken kisses, and wicked hangovers. If you’re really being honest with yourself, you miss it. At least you think you do. Until you see _him_.

Carter Baizen, perched at the top of the staircase by the elevator bank, preying on some nameless girl who doesn’t know what a dick he really is. Good to know he hasn’t changed and is still flirting with anything that moves.

He looks different, more rugged, a pretty boy no longer. He’s clearly filled out. Even under the suit you can see his hulking biceps. Stubble covers his chin, thicker than five o’clock shadow but thinner than a full blown beard. You wonder what it would feel like on your— _No, stop_.

His eyes haven’t changed, though. Still bluer than the water off the coast of Santorini. There’s a lightness, a playfulness in them that you remember. His eyes mesmerized you once, woke the butterflies in your stomach. But that was before he opened his dumb mouth.

Carter spies you on your way up the staircase to the elevators. He smirks in your direction, holds up a _wait_ finger to the poor girl, and dashes toward you. “As I live and breathe,” he drawls, blocking the path to the button panel.

“Hello, Carter,” you say with all the civility you can muster.

“I hoped I’d see you tonight,” he says. His nauseatingly smug expression churns the bile in your stomach.

You force a smile. “So did I.”

He relaxes into himself, hands in pockets, and chuckles. “That surprises me.”

Carter looks off to the side, showcasing his profile. It’s a nice profile: sharp jaw, full lips, strong cheekbones, impossibly long lashes—

 _Stop it_. You’re not going to let yourself get swept away by this dickhead, no matter how fucking gorgeous he looks, especially now that he’s older.

Something new catches your eye. A flaw in his well-sculpted face: a small bump on the bridge of his nose. A bump your fist likely put there. _Not perfect after all_.

A wave of satisfaction flows over you. The feeling is swiftly followed by a pang of guilt for being the cause, but you push that to the side easy enough with the simple reminder that he earned it. You pull your shoulders back and brush the fallen strands of hair out of your eyes.

Carter turns back. He leers at you. “You look fantastic, by the way.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Thanks.”

“Seriously.” He whistles, impressed. His eyes drift over your backside. “Your ass is—”

The spell his handsomeness cast over you falls away. _This is why you hate him_.

“I took up boxing last year,” you interrupt bitingly, “and let me tell you, I’ve gotten a lot stronger and my aim has gotten a lot better.”

Carter swivels on his heel and dips his head back, laughing. “And here I thought we’d grown up.”

 _Shit_. So much for mending fences and moving on. He always brings out the worst in you.

You set your jaw and exhale through your nose. Peering around Carter and through the bustling crowd in the elevator bank, you curse, “Christ, how long does it take the elevator to get here?”

“Oh, I haven’t pressed the button.”

You glare daggers at Carter, your anger only rising with the devilish smirk spreading across his striking—no, _strike-able_ face. (You have to stop that. Remember, this is _Carter Baizen_.)

You shove Carter aside and jam the call button. He laughs mockingly. “Oh, ho, ho! You weren’t lying. I’ll admit, I’m curious how much power you pack behind that punch now.”

You give him a begrudging, tight-lipped grin. “Ask nicely and I’ll show you.”

“Is that a promise?”

The elevator doors open and you rush inside, sighing in relief until you realize Carter is heading to the same place you are, which means you’re stuck in an elevator with him all the way to the top floor. A decidedly tragic outcome.

“So where have you been the last eight years?” asks Carter. You pin your lips and shake your head, refusing to respond. He clears his throat and goes on, “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of traveling. Dubai, Singapore, Amsterdam.”

“Same old Carter,” you chirp.

Carter shrugs, face smug. “What can I say? I’m a wandering soul.”

“I don’t think it’s your soul that’s doing the wandering,” you mumble.

He sucks his teeth. “I am so glad we’re both mature adults now, isn’t that nice?”

The elevator doors finally open. You breeze past Carter, holding your breath so you don’t inhale his cologne, and into the roaring din of the party. You find your girlfriends easy enough, gathered by the table full of champagne glasses. They greet you with hugs and kisses and squeals of excitement.

The first two hours fly by: just you and the girls catching up, gushing over pictures of babies and engagement rings. (You’re happy you have neither.) By hour three, your head is buzzing and your social meter is dwindling. It’s been almost a decade since you’ve attended a proper Palace party and your stamina is shot.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” you tell your friends. You shove through the crowd of vaguely familiar classmates to the one place you know will be empty: the service corridor on the far east side of the penthouse.

You shut the French doors behind you when you enter and take a deep breath. Finally, some quiet. You walk lazily up the corridor, shoes muffled by the thick carpet. You take in the artwork and décor like you used to. For a service corridor, it’s just as perfectly styled as the rest of the suite. But you’d expect nothing less at the Palace.

The door creaks open. You whip around to see Carter shutting it behind him.

“What are you doing here?” you snap. “Are you following me?”

He paces up the corridor toward you with that damned smirk on his damned face. “And what if I am?”

“I came here to be alone,” you sigh, “so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“I don’t mind.” He doesn’t move.

“That was me asking you to leave.”

“Ah, well, in that case.” He leans in and whispers, “It’s a free country, sweetheart, and I can go wherever I want.”

You grunt in aggravation. “Ugh! Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Making what so difficult?”

You close your eyes and breathe deeply, then calmly explain, “I came here tonight because I wanted to get closure, or whatever, so I can finally get your stupid face out of my head.”

Carter kicks the toe of his shoe against the wall and snorts. “I’m in your head, huh?”

“I knew this was hopeless,” you groan. “I’m trying to be an adult, and make amends, and—”

“Apologize?”

“No,” you snipe on instinct, then add, “Kind of, I guess. I may have overreacted when I hit you.”

Carter heaves a sigh. “Thank you.”

“But you did deserve that punch.”

He laughs humorlessly. “I don’t even remember what I did, but I doubt it warranted a broken fucking nose, though. This,” he points to the bump on the bridge, “is because of you.”

“I think it looks better that way,” you sniff, crossing your arms. You know you’re being petty, but you don’t care.

“I could’ve reported you for assault,” he yells.

“So could I!” you shoot back. Carter cocks his head to the side, brow furrowed, confused. You sigh exasperatedly and pitch your hands on your hips. “You _groped_ me.”

He gapes at you. “Are you fucking kidding me? _That’s_ why you fucked up my nose? Because I, what, I grabbed your ass?”

“Yes!” You stomp toward him. “You touched me without my permission, so I touched you without your permission. Call it karma, asshole. An eye for an eye.”

He groans loudly, “Oh, come on. You cannot compare a little ass grabbing to a serious injury.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Can’t I?”

He glares at you, face hard, absolutely fuming. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me.”

Carter grabs your jaw and slams you against the wall. The force blows your hair in front of your face, falling over your nose. You try to shake the strand away, but Carter tightens his grip and pushes you further into the wall. He is in complete control. The thought pulses deep in your pelvis, but you push it aside.

Carter tilts his head and moves closer. His breath fans over your face as he speaks. “Is that what you want? You want me to shut you the fuck up?”

His face changes; eyes clouding with desire, but his expression hard as stone. He licks his lips and growls, “You want me to stick my cock in that bratty mouth of yours? You want me to fill your mouth with my cum? You want me to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak?” He jerks his chin up. “Beg for it.”

Your blood boils. Fire courses through your veins, burning you from the inside out. Beg _him_? For—for what— _that_? Who does this fucker think he is?

Your body responds before your brain does. You drive your knee into Carter’s stomach. He staggers back with a low grunt and releases his hold on your jaw. When he rights himself, you deliver a hard slap to his cheek. His head whips to the side.

From his profile, you see a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. The breathy chuckle that escapes it chills your bones.

“Fuck you, Baizen,” you spit.

Carter lifts his head and meets your gaze, revealing the depraved Cheshire grin plastered to his pouting lips. “Aren’t you trying to?”

You’re vibrating with rage. Through gritted teeth, you manage, “I fucking hate you.”

“Then, why haven’t you left yet?”

_Why haven’t you?_

You huff and start to storm off, but only make it two strides before Carter has clamped his hand around your forearm, yanked you back, and flung you against the wall. Your skull bangs hollowly against it. He stalks toward you, only stopping when his face is mere inches from yours. “Say it again.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Carter’s lips crash against yours—aggressive, demanding, dominating. He hooks a hand around your ribs and the other around the back of your neck, using his thumb to tilt your chin up to meet his kiss directly. He slips his tongue past your teeth. You taste the expensive liquor and foreign cigar smoke lingering in his mouth.

You plant your hands on his chest, ready to push him away, but find yourself pulling him closer instead. You snake a hand around his neck and knot your fingers in his disheveled hair.

Carter adjusts his stance, grinding against you, slotting his knee between your legs. You feel his cock stiffen in the groove between your hip and pelvis. You gasp into his mouth and white-knuckle your grip on his hair, pulling the strands taut. His lips turn up against yours. He grinds against you again.

“You fucking slut,” Carter grumbles into your mouth. “Always acting like little miss perfect when all you really are is a desperate cunt dying to be fucked.”

You yank him back by the hair. “That’s rich coming from the biggest whore on the Upper East Side.”

With your unoccupied hand, you trace the defined cut of his abs. He jolts under your touch. You slow your pace as you near his belt, keeping your touch light and gentle as you outline the zipper with the tip of your finger. His square jaw bulges. Impatience swims in his eyes—which roll back into his head when you palm his cock through his trousers.

A moan tumbles from Carter’s mouth. His head droops forward, stubble scratching your cheek. He grazes his lips over the shell of your ear and drags the lobe through his teeth. “You feel how fucking hard you make me?”

You rub your palm over his bulge, coaxing another moan from him. Carter kisses you, passion unbridled. He unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. He frees his cock from his black boxer briefs and wraps your fingers around his shaft. His nose nudges yours when he breaks the kiss.

“Make me come.”

In a sickeningly sweet voice, a poisonous syrupy sound devoid of irony or mocking, you answer: “Yes, daddy.”

Primal need flashes in Carter’s eyes. His cock pulses in your hand. He kisses you again with a ferocious fervor, sloppy and greedy, as you pump back and forth. He pants into your mouth. His lips move messily against yours. He paws at your curves, mapping every inch of you.

He drags his mouth away from yours and licks a long stripe up the column of your throat. You tilt your head back to give him better access. He licks, bites, sucks around your neck and collarbone, branding you with blossoming bruises.

Carter pulls down the straps of your dress and sinks his teeth into one of your shoulders. He shimmies the fabric lower and lower until your breasts are bared to him. “God, your fucking tits,” he praises.

He cups your breasts and rubs his thumbs back and forth, hardening the nipples. He nips at the left and tugs the nipple between his teeth. Carter yanks his face back to yours and catches your high-pitched whimper, nearly a squeal, in his mouth.

You hasten your pace on Carter’s swollen cock and swipe your thumb over the beading tip. His breath grows more erratic as he swells unimaginably large in your hand. Carter groans loudly, just once, the sound reverberating in the empty corridor. He tears his lips away and wrenches your hand off his cock.

“On your knees,” he orders.

You sink to the ground and look up at him innocently, fluttering your lashes, your lips plump and slightly parted. “Yes, daddy?”

“Suck my cock.”

You hold his throbbing cock in your hand again and flatten your tongue on the underside of his shaft, licking from base to tip. You swirl the tip of your tongue around the head, tasting the beginnings of his release, and ease him slowly into your mouth.

You suck his cock languidly, taking your time, pulling as many expletives and praises you can from Carter’s sinful lips. You take him deep into your throat, as far as you can, and choke around him. He darts his hands to your head and weaves his fingers through your hair.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, “your mouth feels so good. You’re taking my cock so well, being such a good girl. Make daddy come, sweetheart; let me fuck your face.”

You dig your nails into Carter’s clothed thighs to keep yourself steady as he takes control of your head. You gag around his cock and saliva dribbles over your chin as he vigorously thrusts in and out of your mouth.

“Look at me,” Carter demands. You flit your eyes up and stare at his contorted face. Through a strangled moan, he adds, “Don’t swallow.”

He grunts laboriously and screws his eyes shut, dipping his head back as he comes. He draws his cock halfway out your mouth so he can release himself onto your tongue, and falls forward, planting his palm on the wall behind you for support.

You hold his cum in your mouth as he pulls out completely, body still twitching as his orgasm comes to an end. He stuffs his softening cock, wet with your saliva, into his briefs and zips his trousers. Buckling his belt, he stares at you with lust-filled eyes, heavily lidded.

He gestures with a flick of his fingers. “Up.”

You stand.

“Show me.”

You open your mouth and show him the pool of his release resting on your tongue.

“Swallow.”

You do.

Carter grins wickedly and lunges at you, forcing his lips against yours, greeting you with an open-mouthed kiss. He explores your mouth with his tongue, lapping up any remnants of his own release. With his eyes closed, he slides his hand up the hem of your dress, bunching it just above the swell of your ass, giving him access to the apex of your thighs.

He breaks your kiss and snaps his eyes open when he slips his hand between your legs and finds you bare, wet, and dripping for him. “You fucking slut,” Carter huffs through a wide smile; part laugh, part gasp. “You call me a whore when you show up here with nothing under that little dress, practically begging to be fucked.”

You open your mouth to object, to explain the concept of panty lines, but Carter cuts you off by plunging a finger deep into your pussy. You loop your arms around his neck and draw him closer, gasping into the shoulder of his blazer.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Carter murmurs. “Did you get this wet just from having my cock in your mouth? Or were you thinking about all the ways I could defile you?”

You claw at the back of his neck and squeal breathily as he eases a second finger into you.

“Because,” he continues, “there are so many filthy things I have planned. I am going to ruin you.”

Carter curls his fingers inside you, beckoning you toward release. You squeal into the thick fabric covering his shoulder as he sets a moderate pace, the heel of his palm pressed against your swollen clit.

He laughs heartily, tauntingly. “You want me to make you come, sweetheart?”

You struggle to form the words, your head floating in the sea of your mounting pleasure, but you manage to say, “Yes, daddy.”

He nips your ear, whispering, “You better fucking ask first.”

Carter thrusts his fingers into your pussy at a quick pace. He covers your mouth with his and swallows the cries that cascade off your tongue. Your climax climbs, growing and growing deep in your pelvis, spreading warmth through your core. The sounds of Carter’s fingers pumping in your slick channel fill the room. The smell of sex hangs heavy in the air. The string in your stomach tenses, drawn taut, threatening to snap.

“Please, daddy,” you sob. “Please let me come.”

Carter snickers evilly. “Not yet.”

You try to push the pleasure down, to hold on just a bit longer. Your toes curl in your stilettos and your fingernails scrape deep lines down the back of Carter’s neck. Your skin burns, your fingers tingle, your ears ring with white noise.

“Please,” you beg, “daddy, I need to come. Please let me come.”

“Not until I tell you you can,” says Carter. He brings his other hand to your pussy and rubs your clit furiously. You squirm on the tips of your toes while you try to hold off. But it’s too much. You need to come. You’re on the brink of toppling over the edge when Carter stares into your eyes and finally says, “Come.”

You fall apart with a wailing, piercing scream. You gush over Carter’s dexterous hand as he works you through your orgasm, and slump where you stand when he slips his fingers out. He pins you against the wall by the waist with his drier hand, then holds up the one that had just been inside you to examine it.

His entire hand is glistening, coated with the proof of your pleasure. He licks the side of his wet thumb from wrist to knuckle and hums erotically, savoring the taste. He repeats the process over his palm, closing his eyes and smacking his lips as well.

He meets your stare again. His eyes smolder with an alluring intensity. “Taste what I do to you.”

You part your lips and take his slick fingers deep into your mouth. You suck them clean, lapping up your release, keeping your eyes trained on his while you do as you’re told. Carter smirks approvingly. A spark of mischief flashes across his face.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the exit. “I have a room downstairs.”


End file.
